hoisted her up, and who was now shouting in
stentorian tones “All aboard,” though there was not a soul with the
slightest intention of boarding the train but herself.

She leaned forward to wave good-bye to Hosmer, and Fanny, and ThГ©rГЁse,
who were on the platform; then she was gone.

GrГ©goire stood looking stupidly at the vanishing train.

“Are you going back with us?” Hosmer asked him. Fanny and Thérèse had
walked ahead.

“No,” he replied, looking at Hosmer with ashen face, “I got to go fine
my hoss.”




VIII

With Loose Rein.


“De Lord be praised fu’ de blessin’s dat he showers down ’pon us,” was
Uncle Hiram’s graceful conclusion of his supper, after which he pushed
his empty plate aside regretfully, and addressed Aunt Belindy.
“ ’Pears to me, Belindy, as you reached a pint wid dem bacon an’ greens
to-night, dat you never tetched befo’. De pint o’ de flavorin’ is w’at
I alludes to.”

“All de same, dat ain’t gwine to fetch no mo’,” was the rather uncivil
reply to this neat compliment to her culinary powers.

“Dah!” cried the youthful Betsy, who formed one of the trio gathered
together in the kitchen at Place-du-Bois. “Jis listen (to) Unc’ Hiurm!
Aunt B’lindy neva tetched a han’ to dem bacon an’ greens. She tole me
out o’ her own mouf to put’em on de fiar; she warn’t gwine pesta wid
’em.”

“Warn’t gwine pesta wid ’em?” administering a cuff on the ear of the
too communicative Betsy, that sent her sprawling across the table.
“T’inks I’se gwine pesta wid you--does you? Messin’ roun’ heah in de
kitchin’ an’ ain’t tu’ned down a bed or drawed a bah, or done a lick
o’ yo’ night wurk yit.”

“I is done my night wurk, too,” returned Betsy whimpering but
defiantly, as she retreated beyond reach of further blows from Aunt
Belindy’s powerful right hand.

“Dat harshness o’ yourn, Belindy, is wat’s a sourin’ yo’ tempa, an’ a
turnin’ of it intur gall an’ wormwood. Does you know wat de Scripture
tells us of de wrathful woman?”

“Whar I got time to go a foolin’ wid Scripture? W’at I wants to know;
whar dat Pierson boy, he don’t come. He ben gone time ’nough to walk
to Natch’toches an’ back.”

“Ain’t dat him I years yonda tu de crib?” suggestod Betsy, coming to
join Aunt Belindy in the open doorway.

“You heahs mos’ too much fu’ yo’ own good, you does, gal.”

But Betsy was right. For soon a tall, slim negro, young and coal
black, mounted the stairs and came into the kitchen, where he
deposited a meal bag filled with various necessities that he had
brought from Centerville. He was one of the dancers who had displayed
their skill before Melicent and GrГ©goire. Uncle Hiram at once accosted
him.

“Well, Pierson, we jest a ben a wonderin’ consarnin’ you. W’at was de
’casion o’ dat long delay?”

“De ’casion? W’y man alive, I couldn’t git a dog gone soul in de town
to wait on me.”

“Dat boy kin lie, yas,” said Aunt Belindy, “God A’mighty knows ever
time I ben to Centaville dem sto’ keepas ain’t done a blessed t’ing
but settin’ down.”

“Settin’ down--Lord! dey warn’t settin’ down to-day; you heah me.”

“W’at dey doin’ ef dey ain’t settin’ down, Unc’ Pierson?” asked Betsy
with amiable curiosity.

“You jis drap dat �uncle,’ you,” turning wrathfully upon the girl,
“sence w’en you start dat new trick?”

“Lef de chile ’lone, Pierson, lef ’er alone. Come heah, Betsy, an’ set
by yo’ Uncle Hiurm.”

From the encouraging nearness of Uncle Hiram, she ventured to ask
“w’at you ’low dey doin’ ef dey ain’t settin’ down?” this time without
adding the offensive title.

“Dey flyin’ ’roun’, Lord! dey hidin’ dey sef! dey gittin’ out o’ de
way, I tell you. Grégor jis ben a raisin’ ole Cain in Centaville.”

“I know’d it; could a’ tole you dat mese’f. My Lan’! but dats a piece,
dat Grégor,” Aunt Belindy enunciated between paroxysms of laughter,
seating herself with her fat arms resting on her knees, and her whole
bearing announcing pleased anticipation.

“Dat boy neva did have no car’ fur de salvation o’ his soul,” groaned
Uncle Hiram.

“W’at he ben a doin’ yonda?” demanded Aunt Belindy impatiently.

“Well,” said Pierson, assuming a declamatory air and position in the
middle of the large kitchen, “he lef’ heah--w’at time he lef heah,
Aunt B’lindy?”

“He done lef’ fo’ dinna, ’caze I seed ’im a lopin’ to’ads de riva,
time I flung dat Sampson boy out o’ de doo’, bringin’ dem greens in
heah ’dout washin’ of ’em.”

“Dat’s so; it war good dinna time w’en he come a lopin’ in town. Dat
hoss look like he ben swimmin’ in Cane Riva, he done ride him so hard.
He fling he se’f down front o’ Grammont’s sto’ an’ he come a stompin’
in, look like gwine hu’t somebody. Ole Grammont tell him, �How you
come on, Grégor? Come ova tu de house an’ eat dinna wid us: de ladies
be pleas tu see you.’ ”

“Humph,” muttered Aunt Belindy, “dem Grammont gals be glad to see any
t’ing dat got breeches on; lef ’lone good lookin’ piece like dat
Grégor.”

“Grégor, he neva sey, �Tank you dog,’ jis’ fling he big dolla down on
de counta an’ ’low �don’t want no dinna: gimme some w’iskey.’ ”

“Yas, yas, Lord,” from Aunt Belindy.

“Ole Grammont, he push de bottle to’ads ’im, an’ I ’clar to Goodness
ef he didn’ mos fill dat tumbla to de brim, an’ drink it down, neva
blink a eye. Den he tu’n an treat ev’y las’ w’ite man stan’in’ roun’;
dat ole kiarpenta man; de blacksmif; Marse Verdon. He keep on a
treatin’; Grammont, he keep a handin’ out de w’iskey; Grégor he keep
on a drinkin’ an a treatin’--Grammont, he keep a handin’ out; don’t
make no odds tu him s’long uz dat bring de money in de draw. I ben a
stan’in’ out on de gallery, me, a peekin’ in. An’ Grégor, he cuss and
swar an’ he kiarry on, an ’low he want play game poka. Den dey all
goes a trompin’ in de back room an’ sets down roun’ de table, an’ I
comes a creepin’ in, me, whar I kin look frough de doo’, an dar dey
sets an’ plays an Grégor, he drinks w’iskey an’ he wins de money. An’
arta w’ile Marse Verdon, he little eyes blinkin’, he ’low’, �y’ all
had a shootin’ down tu Place-du-Bois, _hein_ Grégor?’ Grégor, he neva
say nuttin’: he jis’ draw he pistol slow out o’ he pocket an’ lay it
down on de table; an’ he look squar in Marse Verdon eyes. Man! ef you
eva seed some pussun tu’n’ w’ite!”

“Reckon dat heifa �Milky’ look black side li’le Verdon dat time,”
chuckled Aunt Belindy.

“Jis’ uz w’ite uz Unc’ Hiurm’s shurt an’ a trimblin’, an’ neva say no
mo’ ’bout shootin’. Den ole Grammont, he kine o’ hang back an’ say,
�You git de jestice de peace, ’hine you, kiarrin’ conceal’ weepons dat
a-way, Grégor.’ ”

“Dat ole Grammont, he got to git he gab in ef he gwine die fu’ it,”
interrupted Aunt Belindy.

“Grégor say--�I don’t ’lows to kiarr no conceal’ weepons,’ an he draw
nudda pistol slow out o’ he udda pocket an’ lay et on de table. By dat
time he gittin’ all de money, he crammin’ de money in he pocket; an’
dem fellas dey gits up one arta d’udda kine o’ shy-like, an’ sneaks
out. Den Grégor, he git up an come out o’ de room, he coat ’crost he
arm, an’ de pistols a stickin’ out an him lookin’ sassy tell ev’y body
make way, same ef he ben Jay Goul’. Ef he look one o’ ’em in de eye
dey outs wid, �Howdy, Grégor--how you come on, Grégor?’ jis’ uz pelite
uz a peacock, an’ him neva take no trouble to yansa ’em. He jis’ holla
out fu’ somebody bring dat hoss tu de steps, an’ him stan’in’ ’s big
uz life, waitin’. I gits tu de hoss fus’, me, an’ leads ’im up, an’ he
gits top dat hoss stidy like he ain’t tetch a drap, an’ he fling me
big dolla.”

“Whar de dolla, Mista Pierson?” enquired Betsy.

“De dolla in my pocket, an’ et gwine stay dah. Didn’ ax you fu’ no
�Mista Pierson.’ Whar yu’ all tink he went on dat hoss?”

“How you reckon we knows whar he wint; we wasn’t dah,” replied Aunt
Belindy.

“He jis’ went a lopin’ twenty yards down to Chartrand’s sto’. I goes
on ’hine ’im see w’at he gwine do. Dah he git down f’um de hoss an’ go
a stompin’ in de sto’--eve’ybody stan’in’ back jis’ same like fu’ Jay
Goul’, an’ he fling bill down on de counta an’ ’low, �Fill me up a
bottle, Chartrand, I’se gwine travelin’.’ Den he ’lows, �You treats
eve’y las’ man roun’ heah at my ’spence, black an’ w’ite--nuttin’ fu’
me,’ an’ he fole he arms an’ lean back on de counta, jis’ so.
Chartrand, he look skeerd, he say �François gwine wait on you.’ But
Grégor, he ’low he don’t wants no rusty skileton a waitin’ on him w’en
he treat, �Wait on de gemmen yo’se’f--step up gemmen.’ Chartrand ’low,
�Damn ef nigga gwine drink wid w’ite man in dat sto’,’ all same he
kine git ’hine box tu say dat.”

“Lord, Lord, de ways o’ de transgressor!” groaned Uncle Hiram.

“You want to see dem niggas sneaking ’way,” resumed Pierson, “dey
knows Grégor gwine fo’ce ’em drink; dey knows Chartrand gwine make it
hot fu’ ’em art’ards ef dey does. Grégor he spie me jis’ I’se tryin’
glide frough de doo’ an he call out, �Yonda a gemmen f’um
Place-du-Bois; Pierson, come heah; you’se good ’nough tu drink wid any
w’ite man, ’cept me; you come heah, take drink wid Mr. Louis
Chartrand.’

“I ’lows don’t wants no drink, much ’bleege, Marse Grégor’. �Yis, you
wants drink,’ an’ ’id dat he draws he pistol. �Mista Chartrand want
drink, too. I done owe Mista Chartrand somethin’ dis long time; I’se
gwine pay ’im wid a treat,’ he say. Chartrand look like he on fiar, he
so red, he so mad, he swell up same like ole bull frog.”

“Dat make no odd,” chuckled Aunt Belindy, “he gwine drink wid nigga ef
Grégor say so.”

“Yes, he drink, Lord, only he cuss me slow, an’ ’low he gwine break my
skull.”

“Lordy! I knows you was jis’ a trimblin’, Mista Pierson.”

“Warn’t trimblin’ no mo’ ’en I’se trimblin’ dis minute, an’ you drap
dat �Mista.’ Den w’at you reckon? Yonda come Père Antoine; he come an’
stan’ in de doo’ an’ he hole up he han’; look like he ain’t ’feard no
body an’ he ’low: �Grégor Sanchun, how is you dar’ come in dis heah
peaceful town frowin’ of it into disorda an’ confusion? Ef you isn’t
’feard o’ man; hasn’t you got no fear o’ God A’mighty wat punishes?’ ”

“Grégor, he look at ’im an’ he say cool like, �Howdy, Père Antoine;
how you come on?’ He got he pistol w’at he draw fu’ make Chartrand
drink wid dis heah nigga,--he foolin’ wid it an’ a rubbin’ it up and
down he pants, an’ he ’low �Dis a gemmen w’at fit to drink wid a
Sanchun--w’at’ll you have?’ But Père Antoine, he go on makin’ a su’mon
same like he make in chu’ch, an’ Grégor, he lean he two arm back on de
counta--kine o’ smilin’ like, an’ he say, �Chartrand, whar dat bottle
I orda you put up?’ Chartrand bring de bottle; Grégor, he put de
bottle in he coat pocket wat hang on he arm--car’ful.

"Père Antoine, he go on preachin’, he say, �I tell you dis young man,
you ’se on de big road w’at leads tu hell.’

“Den Grégor straight he se’f up an’ walk close to Père Antoine an’ he
say, �Hell an’ damnation dar ain’t no sich a place. I reckon she know;
w’at you know side o’ her. She say dar ain’t no hell, an’ ef you an’
de Archbishop an’ de Angel Gabriel come